I dabble, in the vernacular, this image laden manifesto <br />that pops up like an icon in the cigarette smoke <br />surrounding my head. No matter how many 'good day's' <br />are flung at me, still I find the cheerful smiles as comforting <br />as rubbing my skin against a cheese grater. Shifting <br />saltwater like cough drops in my mouth. Oh, how the raspy <br />sound of my lips dampen my spirits as the curtains close. <br /> <br />Parade my mocking eyes like armies marching to their doom. <br />Run my fingers through my hair with metal comb, it bleeds <br />the skin and rushes the air from the mind. Some negro-coloured <br />bodies are cavorting in the backdropp of the losing side. <br /> <br />I hear something. The muddle fogs closer and I have <br />new opinions to force upon myself. Harsh as childbirth I <br />draw my pants down to my knees. Surrender the manhood to <br />the Chesire grin of emasculating nothing people who perfume <br />the room with their polluted points of view. <br /> <br />I won't care, I won't be brave. <br /> <br />I'll let the yellow line down my back become my flag that <br />I will wave like a limp penis above the towers of deceit. <br /> <br />Whose roots need planting? Not mine, at least not the <br />roots from which I've grown. Do the magic markers represent <br />all the colours? Or are there shades of others that we are <br />not allowed to use? I'm not sure anymore which thought <br />is fresh and which is used up like a bleeding tampon that <br />has fallen asleep beside my parlour-game disguise. <br /> <br />I won't care. I won't be brave. <br /> <br />I won't call out anyone's name when I climax.<br /><br />Chris G. Vaillancourt<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/dabble/
